One train

The man was on the subway with a woman he loved. It had been a tough few days, tough few months, really. But for one moment on the train, the shroud lifted and they saw each other.

It happened as they anthropomorphized the subway car they were in. They enjoyed this practice, anthropomorphizing, whether with respect to furniture in apartments, rubber bouncy balls, or foundering building facades in the rain. They marveled at how happy he, the subway car, must have been because he got to do exactly what he was designed for every day, namely ferrying people from one place to another. They wondered whether he had experiences that surpassed the quotidian pleasure of his daily route. Did he prefer specific settings and scenes, say, being above ground further south in Brooklyn, as a sunset over the East River cast incarnadine hues over endless apartment buildings? Even when he was idled for maintenance, he probably enjoyed that, too, because it might make him appreciate his next opportunity to do his job even more. Regardless, surely, he was free of doubt, anxiety, imposter syndrome.

At that, the man stopped talking, lost in his own train of thought. He wondered why it’s so hard for humans to be like that. How hard it is to detach ourselves from the roles we expect ourselves to play and that we imagine others subconsciously acknowledge, accommodate, and acclimate themselves to. He thought about how we’re constantly jerking ourselves and others around, not to mention projecting our experience onto them, hell, projecting our preferences onto subway cars, even, all while potentially misgendering them.

He felt he was hurtling towards foregone conclusions. He felt like he was in an opera, the conceit of which is that the audience already knows what will happen but the drama is so engorging that they enjoy it regardless. The thing was, he had tried, had tried to come back from the point in the relationship where he knew he would end it. But his effort had been to no avail. He also knew that all this rumination kept him from being present, even in the good moments.

Then, the train reached the station, its job done. The woman touched his arm. She’d seen it all. Not just that he drifted off, but where he’d drifted off to. Still, she looked into his eyes. He looked into hers. They smiled. The two of them disembarked. They walked towards the exit, navigating the crowd. The man’s hand was on the small of the woman’s back as they glided through the turnstiles. Then they climbed the stairs and stepped into the evening. And then they carried on and became everything they were already becoming.

Two types of oranges

I waited all day to write this, to write something. I waited all day until it finally felt like the words were unfurling, were disrobing themselves of their rigidity. You deserve that much.

Minutes ago, I was standing in front of oranges in the grocery store, trying to find the exact type my dad wanted. So many oranges. None of them quite right.

A few nights ago over dinner my mom reflected on how she used to bring my cousins in Germany Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups when she’d visit them from America, because they loved them and couldn’t buy them over there back then. Now you can get most things most anywhere. But, as a result, often, they don’t hit the way they used to.

Almost a month ago, a friend of mine killed herself. How exactly, I do not know, and I’ll keep it that way. I only found out by entering her name combined with the town she lived in into my internet browser’s search bar, which led to a short obituary with a photo of her and few details otherwise. She never even got to see California. And all its oranges. She deserved that much.

Now, there’s a hole in my heart the size and the shape of which I’ve never experienced before. There’s no suture sold in stores for it. For what seems like an ever-widening, shapeshifting wound. I looked, trust me. Tried several searches in my internet browser’s search bar.

I guess this is the part where I keep going. Even if nothing is quite right. I buy two different types of wrong oranges, hoping they’re enough for my dad. Knowing he too has holes in his heart, the shapes and sizes of which I know nothing about. He deserves at least that much.





Nick van Osdol enjoys reading and writing prose and poetry and film photography. He is drawn to scenes of decay and retribution. He also enjoys stick shift cars with no SIM cards. His writing has appeared in Hobart Pulp, Citywide Lunch, Plague Circus Press, Dishsoap Quarterly, Dirt, and several other outlets.

Website | Twitter | Instagram